Echoes
by musouka
Summary: Do you think that the road to friendship is always smooth and painless? Especially when it comes to personalities as different as Ken and Ryu.


**Echoes**   
_Part One_

_Tooku kikoeru omae no koe wa_   
_Kinou no ano yume no naka_   
_Kawari wa shinai yakusoku dake ga_   
_Kasukani hibiku_

  
  
  
  
  
  


There are some things one never forgets. 

To this day, if I close my eyes, I can remember the trees near the _dojo_ I trained in for most of my life, sunlight filtering through the leaves to create whimsically dancing shadows upon the ground outside. I can hear the slight thump as my feet moved across the timeworn wooden floor, loud yells puncturing the silence with callous abruptness. 

I remember the stream that flowed down the mountain to the town below, tripping over rocks with a laughing gurgle as one drew close. Clear water teaming with fish, if you waded into one of the deeper areas, you could feel them swim around your feet, living tickles against your skin. 

Of course, with that memory comes the recollection of the day Sensei told me I was no longer allowed to use a net to catch fish for dinner, that even eating could be turned into a lesson. It was one of the few times I had balked at one of his commands; the fish were slippery, and as soon as I would manage to catch one, it would wriggle out of my grasp and swim away with a saucy flick of its tail. But I learned, as I think was Sensei's objective, that hunger can be a powerful motivation...at least as far as I was concerned. 

So many things to recall, brought to the surface of my mind by the merest flicker. A certain smell, reminding me of baking sweet potatoes over a fire in the colder months. A sunset, colors so similar to the ones that spread across the sky, dipping behind the mountains in the summertime. 

But even those memories are brittle, time faded, when I compare them to the day he first appeared. 

It's a small ember burning eternally amongst my recollections, as clear as the day it happened. 

*** 

The events leading up to Ken's arrival were memorable in and of themselves. 

I had been sweeping the yard when I heard them arrive--they made no attempt to hide their loud footsteps as they made their way up the old stone steps, three men in black business suits and dark sunglasses. They looked as if they had been transported from an alien landscape, so incongruous were they with the natural surroundings of the mountains. 

One of them walked towards me--in truth, they looked as if they had been cast from the same mold, only the slightest difference in the three of them. He asked me if my Sensei was available at the moment. I nodded my reply--to this day I'm not one to waste words--and led him to the _dojo_. Sensei was immersed in his morning meditation, oblivious to any outside distractions. There were times when I got a feeling, a tickle in the back of my mind as I watched him, like there was something more besides us in the room, a flash of color surrounding him in a halo before it was gone in a blink. 

Sometimes I wondered if it was _ki_ I was seeing. 

Sensei had told me about the energy that surrounds all living things, how if you were a true martial artist you could go so far as to feel specific kinds of _ki_. In my mind I had a mental picture of how this energy must look, seeing the world in a completely different way. How did the world look to my Sensei? 

It's not as dramatic as it sounds. It's more like a state of mind than anything, "heightened intuition" if you will, as if you can hear a bit sharper; colors are more vibrant; you can read a man's mood in his walk. Once you reach a certain level, it's a natural step. In extreme cases, you might see an aura, but it's not an everyday occurrence. 

Ken has told me he's seen my aura before. Sometimes a focused blue, the innermost color of a flame. Other times an enraged red, thick like blood. I've never told him the reason behind the vast difference, but I can count on one hand all the times I've ever gotten that angry. It's not too strange he would notice, after all, he's been there every single time... 

Anyway--I must apologize; my thoughts can be unwieldy upon occasion. 

My opinion of the strangers was burgeoned when they made no move to disturb him, instead taking a seat near the door to wait. 

I don't know how long it was before I heard low voices from the building. I had finished my sweeping and was working on a series of elaborate _kata_ when I heard Sensei call me to him. His next words were typically abrupt, but surprising nonetheless. 

"Go down to the river, Ryu." 

It never entered my mind to disobey, and so I hastened down the beaten path, mind clamoring with unspoken questions that nearly overwhelmed any natural sounds cascading around me. I didn't even hear the river until I was nearly upon it. 

I attempted to work on my balance training, leaping from rock to rock as the current surged below me. My mind was not focused, however, and more than once I misjudged a jump to end up falling into the water. I hadn't been so clumsy since I was young, and I inwardly chastised myself furiously for allowing myself to be so easily distracted. 

The call to retrieve me did not come until dinner. By the time Sensei's thundering voice echoed over the mountain, I was famished. I went running back as quickly as my bare feet could carry me, hardly noticing the lingering wetness of my once sodden _gi_. The men were gone once I made it back. 

There were no questions asked as we shared our modest spread--the only thing we had in abundance was rice. I didn't mind, as long as there was enough to fill my ever greedy stomach. 

Sensei had always made it clear that even the most seemingly perfect of men had at least one weakness or vice. I have at least one of each that I can think of in a moment's time. I never asked what his might be, though I'm sure he would have answered me with the frankness he bestowed upon all the questions I voiced. I knew my own all too well. Of course, knowing meant I could also guard against and overcome them--a hypothesis that works much better theory than in practice. 

All too often it seemed as though my belly had a mind of its own, never hesitant in voicing its complaints with gurgling rumbles, usually at the most inopportune times. My appetite was my vice. As for my weakness, I would be a fool to broadcast what is already painfully clear. 

In any case, I was fairly comfortable in my knowledge that Sensei would explain what had happened this afternoon, should I need to know. Naturally, I was curious, but it was not my nature to deluge Sensei with inquiries. Questions should always be chosen carefully in order to gain their maximum benefit. 

After I hurriedly finished my seventh bowl of rice--it would be years before I fully discovered my table manners left much to be desired--Sensei finally spoke. 

"I am considering taking on a new student." 

I had thought the day could not possibly contain any more surprises. For as far back as I could remember I had been Sensei's only student, the two of us living together as virtual hermits, even though there was a village at the base of the mountain. The thought of another person joining our world was as earth shattering and alien as a high magnitude earthquake. 

"Someone from the village?" I found myself asking. 

"No, he is from much further away. An American." 

A _gaijin_?! Inadvertently, my mind went to a description overheard from a group of children from the village the last time I had been down there. One of their number had recently taken a trip to Tokyo, where he had actually seen a _gaijin_. From the way he had talked, the man had sounded more like a monster: a nose as long as a_ tengu's_, hair as red as fire...and we would be sharing our home with one? My previously quiet curiosity exploded in a burst of flame. 

"He is the same age as you." Sensei continued quietly. "I only mention it to prepare you; I have not yet agreed to teach him." 

I assumed, correctly, that Sensei would reserve his judgment until he had seen this stranger in action. There was no use in agreeing to teach someone without any talent, as harsh as that might sound. 

Though my mind was burbling with questions the rest of the meal was silent. Anything I could blurt out would be answered with thoroughly with the passage of time, and therefore was just as well left unspoken. 

*** 

Weeks passed and I gradually stopped looking for foreigners behind every tree. Who knew when this mysterious boy might show up? 

Outwardly my life was unchanged. I ate at the same times, arose early for practice, did my chores...yet I remained aware that things could change at a moment's notice. I wondered about all sorts of things, from questioning if this stranger would eat the same things I did, to musing upon how skilled he would be at martial arts. 

I had not had much in the way of schooling. I never attended classes in a school with other children, and my knowledge of America was minimal. Don't misunderstand; I knew how to read and write just as well as most youths in the surrounding countryside--perhaps even better. Books were not as scarce in my childhood as they had been in the rural community in the past, though still not common enough to take for granted. Sometimes I think our mountain was untouchable by time, sleeping while the rest of Japan took giant steps forward into the future. 

Then one day Sensei told me to go down to the village to pick up some supplies. I had already turned to leave when he offhandedly added that the prospective student would be waiting for me as well. 

Normally I did not relish the trip down the mountain. The tiny village below was an alien world to me, a place where people stared at me as though I had dropped from the sky. Children my own age dissected me with whispers and giggles as I walked by. I'm sure many of them thought me nearly mute or stupid, considering I never turned in their direction at even some of the bolder exclamations that were surely meant to be overheard. 

The sleepy town nestled in the foothills of the mountain, bisected by a dirt road that ran through the center of settlement. The surrounding area was farmland, fields of uniform green evident in the distance as I made my way down the twisted path. By the time I made it to the center of the village, my feet were normally filthy--even more so than usual, since I only wore shoes in the winter--and my _gi_ was sporting a layer of fine dust, streaking the worn white with brown. 

That day I could tell there was something different going on; it was a sort of feeling to the air, as if the atmosphere had changed. The streets were unusually quiet, though there was a hum drifting on the wind, a whisper of excitement. A boy a few years younger than myself ducked out of a shop, his mother calling after him furiously as he ran ahead to turn around a corner out of my view. I followed him quietly; I had a feeling I knew what the source of all this excitement was. 

Upon rounding the corner, I was met with a small wall of people's backs, taking up most of the room on the street. Pushing my way through the crowd, I found my suspicions confirmed. 

Standing there was a boy unlike any person I had ever seen. He waited with almost tangible impatience spiced with an undercurrent of what seemed to be worry. Most of the older men and women gave him a wide berth, but some of the more daring children were drawing closer. Another boy--nearly a man--reached out to give his long, impossibly blond hair a curious tug, only to have the tendrils escape his grasp as the stranger gave a quick jerk of his head. The strange boy's gaze was fiery and full of pride, and I couldn't help but think of a tiger besieged by a pack of wolves. The comparison was most likely unfair; I'm sure the townspeople were merely curious and wished him no harm, but the image still lingered. 

He was beautiful. 

There is really no other way to put it, though a part of me insists there must be a better term. 

I once made the mistake of telling Ken this to his face, and he reacted with predicable outrage. What young boy wants to hear that he is "beautiful", from someone other than his mother? At least I assume that is something a mother would say, having never been in the position to find out for myself. The picture that the word conjures up is of some fragile vase or a painting sitting in a museum somewhere. No, "tough" or "strong" are often the words a boy lusts after. 

I did not have the vocabulary to clarify what I meant. Ken was not beautiful in a decorative sense. Rather, watching him was like watching a waterfall, or admiring the crackling flames of a campfire. A sort of natural beauty without deception. One always knows where they stand with Ken; he makes no pretenses, plays no emotional games. 

Anyway, his hair was long, going down a bit farther than the base of his neck and tied back with a crimson strip of cloth that matched the red of his _gi_. It looked as though it had been painted by a brush dipped in sunlight. His features were not that different from my own, nothing like what I had imagined in my wild flights of fancy. He had almond shaped, chocolate brown eyes and nose of normal size. His skin was paler than mine, though it could have been the contrast with his _gi_. 

It was only after I pushed my way in front of the crowd and faced him that I realized I had no way to communicate with him. Strangely, the problem was taken care of itself, for when he saw me he picked up his bag and nodded--upon reflection I'm fairly sure it was my clothing that gave my identity away. The crowd parted around us as I walked purposely toward the store, the American boy trailing in my wake. 

The shopkeeper was distracted at the sight of the other boy, even forgetting to give his usual greeting of "_irasshaimase_". I'm sure the scarlet clad boy's less than restrained inspection of the merchandise didn't help the matter any. The stranger nearly tipped a monumental decorative vase over when he tilted it to peer inside. I let out a sigh of relief when he managed to catch it before it hit the ground, and he grinned sheepishly as he moved it back to its proper spot next to the doorway. 

I had hardly expected that bringing this prospective student up the mountain meant I would have to baby-sit him as well. My task was made doubly difficult due to the fact that I could not censure him for his actions; I did not know English. 

Finally the owner roused himself long enough to finish packing our supplies, no doubt eager to get us out of his shop. 

Curious eyes followed our every move until we were well out of town, their heat uncomfortable heavy and stifling. We both breathed easier once out of their sight, the blond boy visible relaxing the father away we went. 

"_Ore wa Ken Masters da._" 

I literally jumped at the sudden sound, almost upsetting the bag I was carrying. For a few moments I didn't even think to connect them with the boy walking beside me. When the source eventually dawned on me, my next words were less than intelligent. 

"You know Japanese?!" The question escaped my lips of its own volition. I think I would have been less surprised to see a talking dog, however rude that sounds. 

"Ken is a Japanese name, isn't it?" He said easily. It took a couple of seconds for me to reply. Though the shock had worn off, I was still unused to carrying on extended conversation. 

"Just because your name is Japanese doesn't mean you know the language." I did not mention that I hadn't even known his name in the first place. 

"True." He admitted. "My mom is Japanese, and my dad is half." He explained. I nodded once, considering the conversation at an end. My major question had been answered. Ken, however, seemed perturbed at the sudden silence, as if a gag had been untied from his mouth upon exiting the village, only to have it thrust upon him once again. It was obvious to me that he was not naturally one to curb his tongue. 

"So...you live on the mountain?" He finally asked. I didn't mind answering questions, it was only natural for him to have them. 

"Yes." Again he stared after it became obvious I was not inclined to elaborate. 

"Umm, how old are you?" 

"Ten." 

We went through a number of things; my favorite color, what I liked to eat, what I did for fun, and so on. I can recall my quiet confusion. I had no idea what he was trying to gather from this information. It never occurred to me to simply talk for conversation's sake. I answered everything he asked simply and directly, and yet his growing ire was obvious with ever reply I gave. 

Eventually his patience gave way. "Are you _stupid_?!" 

That gave me pause. How on earth was I expected to answer that question? 

"I don't understand." I finally said. Ken's dark brow furrowed. 

"Don't you know how to talk?" He clarified. 

"Of course." I answered. 

"Then why won't you talk to me?!" Ken was growing more and more agitated, I noted with inward alarm. We were conversing in Japanese, but for all intents and purposes we might as well have been speaking two different languages. I didn't know that Ken had grown up in a place where conversation and polite questions were the first step towards a relationship, a way of interaction. Of course, as far as I was concerned, Sensei had never taught me the art of making small talk... 

"I am talking to you." I said warily. Obviously I was missing something important. 

"Are you making fun of me?!" 

"No." The truth in my voice seemed to drain the anger right out of him. As it vanished, the barest glimpse of a tired little boy, all alone in a strange place, was noticeable, before he let fiery determination lift him once again. It was enough to prompt me to ask, "What did I do to upset you?" 

"I was trying to be nice," Ken started. "But every time I tried to talk to you, all you did was..." He trailed off, not sure how to explain. 

"I answered your questions, didn't I?" I probed, not wanting to perpetuate unneeded bad feelings between us. 

"I wanted to have a conversation with you. You know--" At this he shifted his bag so that his hands were free and began a silly pantomime. "How are you doing? Oh, I'm just fine! And you? I'm doing great." 

I regarded the makeshift puppet show with much more gravity than it probably merited, though at any other time I would have laughed. I'm serious, but that doesn't mean I lack a sense of humor. 

"Why?" I cut his show short. 

"It's how you get to know people." 

That didn't make any sense to me. 

"I think you can understand people better by watching them." I replied. "Does knowing my birthday tell you when I'm sad? Do you think knowing my favorite color will help you understand when I'm upset?" I fully expected the scowl to reappear on Ken's face, but he surprised me by laughing. 

"Wow." He exclaimed, voice light as we continued on our way, tiny clouds of dust rising from the dirt road and settling on our feet. "I didn't know you could say that much at one time. Does this mean you've used up your allowance of words for this week?" 

With a start I realized we were nearing home.   


For some reason, the trip had seemed a lot shorter this time.   
  
  


**To Be Continued...**   
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End file.
